Why can't I just take the cord without killing the larva?
by Gensh
Summary: The nightmare whirls and churns unending...
1. Fire in the blood

In the old days, when the Hunt was in full swing, hunters were ten a penny. Heroes like Ludwig the Holy Blade stood as shining exemplars of the craft, and the common folk of Yharnam were inspired to follow their example. Yet the common folk of Yharnam lacked the uncommon willpower required to be a truly successful hunter. These newblood hunters were overwhelmed by the Blood and the Hunt and were drawn into a Nightmare of the Hunt everlasting. With time, even the greatest of the old hunters found that dark dream's haunting call irresistible.

As Yharnam fell into its twilight, paranoia became the norm. The holiest of men became the cruelest of beasts, and those who stood most stalwart against the call of beasthood were instead taken by the Nightmare. The common folk kept their doors locked, even to hunters. Nerves frayed shorter than the Powder Kegs' fuses, and no one could be trusted. Though the remaining hunters could be counted on one hand, each stood alone and in fear of his fellows.

Only the foreigners Gascoigne and Henryk lacked this "common sense" peculiar to Yharnam. Alone, each was a great hunter, but a lone hunter is vulnerable. Together, they kept one another sane and watched the other's back. So too did the new hunters, strangers in a strange land.

"Molotov! I need space!"

A man in a dusty bronze brigandine backpedaled as the moaning cleric beast lunged at him. The claws of its right hand sparked as they tore through solid stone, just a hair's breadth away from his chest. Metal plating or no, his wiry body couldn't take more than a hit or two from the massive beast. A gold-trimmed claymore in his right hand scraped the stone as he retreated, and an ornate pistol in his left fired blindly to cover his retreat. Taking a breath as he and the beast stopped, he brushed his thick black hair back with the barrel of the gun and hazarded a glance back, his unsettling bright violet eyes glinting in the low light.

While he had forgone a head covering, his partner was much more audacious. Though she wore a long, armored skirt wrapped with bandoliers of countless hunter tools, there was no pretension of the garment being for modesty. From the waist up, she wore only loosely-wrapped bandages that threatened to fall away with every motion. As she threw the bottle, the man found himself captivated by the dance of her unrestrained breasts and was forced to make a desperate dive to avoid being torn open. The molotov crashed against the beast's head, and it shrieked as the flames leapt across its fur.

"Both of you need to pay attention!" the huntress snapped, the fire mirrored in her blood red eyes.

She snapped forward, the train of a long, high chestnut ponytail like the tail of a beast behind her. A wicked crescent saw skittered across the stones at her side glimmering in the darkness, wet with fat. The remains of beasts and men the teeth had bitten fed an inner repository where the flesh putrefied before greasing the blade. Now, the huntress spun her thumb across a wheel on the back of the grip, spitting a shower of sparks across the back of the weapon and lighting the pungent oil. The beast clutched its claws together and hammered down with enough force to cause a shockwave, but she sidestepped and wrenched the saw upward and over the back of the monster's bandaged left wrist.

It howled, now more desperate than ever, as it clutched its precious pendant with both hands. Before the hunters could attack again, it quickly retreated just as swiftly as it had chased before. It fell into a seated position before the Grand Cathedral's altar, clutching its man-rending talons in prayer. A gentle golden glow began to flow from its clasped hands, accompanied by a pleasant hum. Though the hunters closed in on either side, the cleric beast remained still, assured in its faith.

The man quickly took the center, pulling the trigger on his claymore. The blade split in two, the halves sliding along the crossguard and locking into place. He swung the double-blade with both hands, but as it reached the beast, it struck as if against a solid wall. The weapon resounded like a church bell, and the beast's miraculous healing suddenly fell dark and silent. The monster gaped, unable to comprehend the severing of its divine channel.

The smirking hunter woman had no such hesitation, running straight past the beast and flipping atop the altar's statuary. Using the bite of a threaded cane, she quickly swung her way to the top of the headless statue of the deity. Without losing a beat, she wheeled around and flung herself onto the beast's neck. Taking a firm grip on one of its antlers with her free hand, she stamped both feet into its flesh and gave a tremendous pull with the burning saw. Blood spurted uncontrollably from the half-cauterized wound, sending hunter and beast alike careening to the cathedral floor.

In a flash, the armored man sheathed his sword and holstered his gun, quickly sliding to catch his partner. She gave him a knowing smile.

"You've been waiting for this, haven't you?"

"Maybe... I mean, we couldn't do it until now..."

"Is it everything you imagined?"

"You're pretty heavy-"

She gave him the stinkeye, but unfortunately, he was the type to find even that attractive.

"I'm just saying-"

"Your turn, dear."

She quickly jumped out of his arms and threw her saw in front of her as she rolled sideways. Before he could ask what she was doing, he found himself in the grasp of a maddened cleric beast.

"I did tell you to pay attention," the huntress said casually as the monster squeezed the life out of her partner.

By now, the flame on her saw had gone out, so she struck the tiny grindstone again as she charged the beast. The blade danced along the back of its legs with a shower of blood, and it collapsed a second time, dropping its human dog toy.

"I should be irritated that it's taking this long," she hummed, "but honestly, I'm impressed that she managed to fit this much blood in her. Was it all there while she was still human, or did the volume increase when she transformed?"

The other hunter had quickly regained his feet and readied his weapons.

"Like a blood pinata! No, wait, those'd be the fat guys who drop a bunch of vials."

The woman shook her head.

"Thank you for that insightful commentary."

The man snickered.

"Insight."

The woman cracked a wan, hopeless sort of smile, thoroughly disappointed in herself for being amused by that. The beast was trying to pull itself to its feet once more, and here she was listening to her fool of a husband's stillborn attempts at humor. Before the beast could recover, she quickly drew a special blood vial from her gear and jabbed it into the monster's thigh. The cleric beast shrieked wildly and began to spasm as the bubbling, faintly glowing blood drained from the glass. As the creature convulsed, it began to wither, its hair falling out in clumps as it shrank.

At last, a pale, thin woman lay insensate among the rags and fur. Just beneath her pallid skin, her arteries pulsed orange-red for a few moments before calming. The other hunter approached.

"You know, she kind of looks like- Oh! She's coming around."

They looked on at the woman, careful to give her plenty of space.

"I- I'm human...?"

"Yes. How are you feeling?" the hunter asked politely.

"More, can you remember your name? Do you feel any strange urges?" the huntress added.

"I'm... fine. My... my name is Amelia. Vicar of the Healing Church. And no."

The thin, tired woman hardly seemed fazed by her lack of clothing. She quickly rose, wrapping rags around her as she did so.

"Please! I don't know how you did it, and I couldn't care less now. If you can reverse the scourge of beasts, we must hurry and administer it to as many as we can, before the whole city is lost!"

"Working on it!" the hunter said, giving a cheesy smile and a thumbs-up.

"This cure is far more dangerous than the loss of a single city. I'm already loath to spread it this far," the huntress clarified. "Beasts are one thing. Demons are quite another."

"Demons? I don't understand," the Vicar said plainly.

The Healing Church of course spoke of gods and of beasts, but demons were unnecessary to its narrative and so did not exist. Other faiths had demons, but other faiths did not have blood ministration and its miraculous healing.

"Fear the Old Blood, right?" the hunter murmured. "We bled you as far as we dared, then injected blood from a very different source. More powerful. More dangerous."

The Vicar knitted her brows and frowned.

"I said that I didn't wish to know, but I have changed my mind. What manner of creature holds this blood? It is not akin to... the forbidden blood of that ancient queen?"

The hunter shook his head.

"Honestly, it might be related, but this is older blood. The blood of one of the Old Lords. The blood of Chaos Witch Quelaag."

"This Chaos Witch. What did it look like?"

"A hideous monster. What was once a hag fused at the torso into the body of a spider with countless limbs and eyes. It burns with an undying fire of blind rage that is not extinguished even in the mires of-"

The huntress swatted her partner on the back of the head. As she stepped forward, her body began to grow, and something shuddered beneath her skirt. Several double-jointed bug legs lashed out and spewed fire before she returned to normal.

"I fought the everlasting dragons alongside the greatest of the gods. Undying seafood and their pet dogs don't frighten me."


	2. Coldblooded

On the night of the Hunt, when the beasts prowled about the city in every-increasing number, there was little the common folk could do. They locked their doors, said their prayers, and lit their incense. The sharp, tangy scent was one of the few things that repelled the beasts, but if the night dragged long, even that was of little help. The hunters were themselves little better than their prey, but what is said about desperate times yet rings true.

There was a quick rapping at the door. A strange, lighthearted rhythm. Certainly not the pounding and scraping of a beast's claws. Still, there were worse things that stalked the nights of Yharnam. She approached the peephole nervously, catching a whiff of a peculiar, wet, marshy smell.

"Oh, my, what a queer scent…" she said out loud by mistake. "But I'd take it over the stench of blood and beasts any day." She quickly turned to business: "What is it, then? I'm off during hunts, so if that's what you're here for, I'll leave you to your own devices. If that doesn't do it, come back in the morning, darling."

A lady of the night she was, but not on the night of the Hunt. Still, the hunter she spied through the glass looked pleasant enough. Kind eyes and a confident grin.

"Uh. No, no. I'm, uh, happily married," he said, as if that meant anything to her usual clients. "And besides, you've got nothing on- my wife's big butt, and I cannot lie! You paid ladies can't deny!"

Prostitute or no, she was momentarily stunned by such explicit sexuality – from a hunter, no less. Fortunately, the shock cleared her mind of the dreamy fear that oppressed the night. She could smell the hunter's strange, earthy scent through the incense. She didn't even need to look at the last remnants of the smoldering stick in the dish.

"You're a hunter, right?" she said, interrupting his song. "Might you know of a safe place? The night is long and I've very little of the incense left… Please, there must be some nice place to run off to?"

"-my Darkstalker don't want-! Oh! Right, that's actually why I'm here."He sobered rather quickly. Now that night's fallen, my wife and I are going around and saving everyone, whether they like it or not. _You_ , actually," he sighed, "are in particular danger."

"How could that be?" she said suspiciously. "I can't believe the beasts would be choosy about their blood, or if they did, that they would lust after a whore's."

Perhaps this hunter was like the others after all. There should be no reason for the special attention. Even if he somehow knew her (and he didn't look like a customer), it would be simple enough to send her along with the others.

"It's not the beasts you need to worry about. It's a god."

He didn't elaborate. The words slowly sank in, but they only confused her more.

"I… don't understand."

"Byrgenwerth unearthed something that is both a history and a prophecy: ' _When the red moon hangs low, the line between man and beast is blurred. And when the Great Ones descend, a womb will be blessed with child.' The holy mother is chosen from a certain bloodline. You are the last of that bloodline in Yharnam."_

 _"_ _A bloodline? Surely, that_ _couldn't be me."_

 _"_ _How long have you had that dress?"_

 _She unwittingly looked down at the worn crimson and gold._

 _"_ _I… what?"_

 _"_ _That style of dress is particular to your heritage, and your lineage is obvious to anyone who inspects or uses your blood."_

 _"_ _And you would know these things?" she hissed, almost backing away from the door but restrained by curiosity._

 _"_ _Well, I'm the prophet of a different god. Incidentally, my god would be totally okay with your fate, but she's a terrible person, so let's go ahead and avoid that._ _I mean, I know I sound like some sort of creeper right now, but I'm pretty sure you don't want to lose your sanity giving birth to a star god. I mean, I've seen the future. Your baby's cuter than my brother-in-law, but that's not saying much. Wait, don't tell my wife I said that._ _"_

 _Ah, she understood now. The remark about the dress had spooked her, but there was no cause for alarm. The blood had gotten to this one, but he was passive, at least. No real danger save the ever-dwindling incense. Dare she risk taking the madman's advice?_

 _"_ _Let's say I believe you. Will you take me someplace safe?"_

 _"_ _Of course! Mind, I'll need to speak with the jerk across the street first, but he can find his own way to safety. We have a much more 'involved' path ahead of us."_

 _She hesitated, but there was no guarantee that any of the other hunters would even bother saving someone like her. If she would die, it would not be cowering in the dark. Licking her lips, she pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the moonlit night._

 _It was only many hours later that she realized the full scope of her mistake._

 _First came the surprise that the hunter's wife actually existed and was neither a corpse nor a beast. The woman was quite pleasant, actually, despite her vulgar choice in attire. Ofttimes, the hunter would run off ahead to face some danger or another, leaving his partner to watch over their companion. She and the huntress spoke frankly about their respective pasts until the words came naturally. It seemed that the huntress had come to Yharnam from another large city overrun by beasts._

 _Strange as the husband might have been, she gained a measure of appreciation for him from his wife's words. Only, it seemed that he alone knew their destination. As they passed the Grand Cathedral and passed through the woods to the_ _Hemwick Charnel Lane of ill repute, she grew worried. It wasn't until she saw the horses that she grew truly frightened. They were dead, rotten flesh black as midnight, yet they thundered in with that ruined carriage like the wrath of a god._

 _The hunter was not surprised, and the huntress found the surprise pleasant rather than horrifying. The whore wanted to flee, but where could she go? Follow the path of carnage back to the beast-stalked streets? She gripped the hem of her gown tightly to hide the quivering of her hands and took her seat beside the huntress in that unholy carriage._

 _At long last, it came to a stop. The possessed door opened of its own will once more, and she suddenly found herself shivering from cold in addition to fear. Before was a great castle, capped with snow. She wondered briefly why she had not noticed the icy chill before, but when the woefully-underdressed huntress placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, she almost recoiled from the heat. Inside the walls, the two of them waited outside, taking shelter under the roof of a small building while the husband ran past hideous monsters toward the main gate._

 _After a frozen eternity, the shuttered door of the building opened as the hunter waved them into the elevator. At the top was a magnificent library, yet there was no time to peruse the collected works. The three of them climbed a long ladder to the highest floor. From there, they climbed a stairwell up a turret and onto the slippery castle roof. The huntress kept a steady grip on her as they hurried away from living gargoyles of all things._

 _At last, they reached an archway._

 _"_ _Okay, just chill here- That was a poor choice of words. Don't freeze to death."_

 _"_ _Here," the huntress said emphatically, drawing a cloak from one of her husband's bags while glaring at him. "We'll be back shortly."_

 _Through the iron rails, the whore – who had been living quite an ordinary life until this point – watched a madman and an exhibitionist fight a flying corpse wielding a scythe and summoning giant skulls out of thin air. She took her head into her hands and wondered if perhaps she hadn't fallen asleep. But then the blood-splattered duo returned for her, and the three of them entered the hall on the far side. Past the ornate columns and gilded statues of horsemen was another room. Here, the statuary was not so orderly, but rather was strewn about the room haphazardly among overturned dishes and candelabra as if guests milling about a ball._

 _Still, there was a clear path ahead, to the white light of the moon streaming in through the window on the far side. Beneath it was a pair of thrones. If she squinted, she could just barely make out a figure seated on the right._

 _"_ _Visitors…" a voice whispered as if directly into her ear._

 _"_ _Yo, Annalise!" another voice shouted from directly beside her ear. "We brought you a relative!"_

 _"_ _Impossible," the first hissed. "We are undone."_

 _"_ _Look, you say that, but there's also some lunatic running around in one of your helmets, killing people with a Chikage!"_

 _The whore was already exhausted from the journey – did the hunter really need to shout like that?_

 _"_ _Anyway, this is Arianna! She needs a place to stay, and you're a lonely old hikikomori."_

 _"_ _Ari… Arianna… you say…"_

 _As the trio grew close, they could see the source of the voice was indeed someone seated upon the right throne. A pale woman in a long-faded gown, slumped over in the seat – though from exhaustion or the weight of the metal helm she wore remained to be seen._

 _"_ _I apologize for my consort's rudeness," the huntress said, bowing her head only slightly. "Hail, Queen of Cainhurst. I am Quelaag, Queen of Izalith. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."_

 _"_ _Forgive us if we do not rise," the seated queen said absently. "We are bound and bloodstarved. A pleasure, truly. Now, this girl, Arianna. Who is she?"_

 _"_ _An orphan, from what she has spoken of," Quelaag replied. "The dress she wears is the sole possession she retains from her parents. She was wrapped in it when delivered to the orphanage."_

 _"_ _Circumstantial evidence. Such gowns were common and this one likely stolen."_

 _"_ _That is quite possible, and you would certainly know more about it than I. Her blood, however, is quite conclusive proof, isn't it? Wouldn't a queen with an empty court be eager to learn of lost kin?_ _"_

 _Annalise shifted uncomfortably in her seat._

 _"_ _Of course. Yet I have only your word to trust-"_

 _"_ _My consort is a prophet, so when he says that this girl is your kin, it is absolutely true. Now, I don't care what excuses you may make or why. Will you shelter the girl or will you not?"_

 _"_ _Enough. We will do so, if only that you may leave us in peace."_

 _Arianna looked at the expressionless mask, then to the burning gaze of the huntress. She certainly wouldn't mind staying in a castle, though cold and empty. Still, it seemed rather abrupt to be thrust upon an unwilling host. The hunter couple shared a gaze, then turned to her._

 _"_ _We'll check up on you when we can," the husband said._

 _"_ _Take care of yourself," the wife added, patting her on the shoulder. "Don't fear – you're in good hands."_

 _They both walked away several paces and held out their hands as if reaching toward something. Wispy trails began to run off their bodies, and in a moment, they had completely sublimated to a dreamy fog. She was alone with the masked queen._

 _"_ _Do not misunderstand," the older woman said faintly. "You are fortunate not to share our corrupted blood. When the Church returns to finish us, you will be spared."_


	3. She's got radioactive blood

_He did not know whether he was Zhou, who had dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming that he was Zhou._

 _…_ _there are no certain indications by which we may clearly distinguish wakefulness from sleep...it is almost capable of persuading me that I now dream._

 _Is all that we see or seem; But a dream within a dream?_

 _Perhaps you've seen it, maybe in a dream._

 _You may think it all a mere bad dream..._

He jerked awake with a slight panic. A tower of empty soda cans avalanched off the side of the desk. The harsh light of afternoon glared through the cracks in the shut blinds. A disgusting musk hung heavy in the stagnant air. Once the clattering of cans had ended, only the crackling hum of a bonfire could be heard, playing on loop.

The man stretched his face and yawned as he removed the headphones, though they left impressions in his tangle of greasy black hair and around his ears. One eye closed again, then the other. He sighed and slid his body along the desk, blindly reaching for the fallen cans. Unfortunately, one had bounced some distance, so he grumbled and staggered to his feet. Drunkenly, he stumbled toward it and placed it with the others before looking back at the mess in disgrace.

"Been a since I did that…" he grumbled. "…messed up my played time."

One of his Chosen Undead waited on the screen, staring blankly into the distance. A mere hollow without a player to guide it. He quit the game and headed for the shower. He rarely remembered his dreams, but the fragments of a nightmare clung to him like the trail of drool on his cheek. A good, hot shower would wash away both.

Yet the warm water only aggravated the flashes of blood and fire that oppressed his mind. The steam cleared his lungs of the noxious air only to replace it with half-faded memories of a nightmare fog. He exited and buried his face in a towel, trying to wipe away the thoughts with the water. Fortunately, a buzzing came from the bedroom. He hastily wrapped himself and grabbed his phone.

"Hey. No, I didn't do anything today. I just got up. I don't know what you were expecting. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Uh huh. Talk to you later, Mom."

He dressed but only returned to his seat. This late, all his online friends were on, but he didn't feel particularly talkative. The backlog in one of the rooms stretched into the hundreds, but just thinking of playing catchup made him tired again. He sighed and flipped open the dating app on his phone. No matches; no surprise.

By now, his stomach was growling, so he wandered into the kitchen and turned on the oven. While it preheated, he headed back to his usual spot. He was still groggy and didn't feel like playing anything that would require a whole lot of effort. Plus, he'd be eating a pizza in half an hour or so, so he couldn't get wrapped up in anything. He stared at the blank screen for several seconds before his phone buzzed.

A message on the dating app! He quickly swiped it open.

Username KillerLag wrote, _"_ _Pathetic. You don't amount to much by yourself, do you?_ _"_

 _He stopped reading there. She wasn't wrong, but he wasn't about to feed a troll. He looked at his unshaven reflection in the screen. He had nothing better to do before putting the pizza in._

 _"_ _I'm living my life the way I like_ _,"_ he began typing.

He wasn't able to continue. That wasn't true, was it? He wanted more but never knew how to find it. He looked at his reflection again. The man sighed and headed to the bathroom to shave.

That done, he rubbed his smooth chin and put the pizza in the oven, glancing at the clock. Circling back to the bedroom for the umpteenth time, he realized there was no place to put the cooked pizza amidst the mess. He sighed and began cleaning. Oblivious to the passage of time, he did a quite thorough job in vain, as his pizza was blackened by the time he remembered to retrieve it. As he pondered what to do about breakfast-lunch-dinner, his phone buzzed again.

 _"_ _Let's have lunch somewhere._ _"_

This was… strange. In the end, he hadn't responded to that first awful message. There were manga characters that were bad at communicating, but he'd never expected to see this level of tsundere past the 2D border. If this was a prank, it was a strange one. Still, he didhave nothing better to do, and he might as well go out for lunch.

He cleared the message he'd been typing and instead sent, _"_ _Yeah, sure. How about that Mexican_ _place?"_

The drive was mindless, and he'd soon arrived rather early. To his great surprise, KillerLag was already there. Even more surprising, she wasn't a fatty using old pictures from before putting on weight. Rather, she seemed quite out of his league: well-groomed, athletic, and quite a bit taller. Yet as they entered the restaurant, he realized that he was quite literally going to feed a troll.

Well, these dates made for interesting stories at least. He tiredly ordered a quesadilla, butas they began to talk, hefound quite a bit to discuss. They didn't have the same hobbies but rather the same fundamental interests; nothing in common but everything to talk about. They spoke feverishly, chatting into the wee hours… of new ideas, of the higher plane. Perception wavered.

"Quesadilla. My delicious Quesadilla."

Someone whispered, "No, we shall not abandon the dream."

He reached for his phone. It shouldn't have gotten late this quickly. His eyes fluttered with tiredness, and with each time they opened, the scene had changed subtly. Spiders skittered across the walls, and the light of the Paleblood Moon shone through the windows. Its keening reverberated through his head.

Lordran. Izalith. Anor Londo. Oolacile. Drangleic. Shulva. Brume. Eleum Loyce. Yharnam.

The man smirked.

"How did you like my world?"

"Is that how you thank someone for saving you?" Quelaag replied, unable to keep a straight face. "Just be glad spiders have plenty of eyes."

The restaurant's other customers ducked for cover as the armored man raised his claymore and pulled a trigger. He struck the blade against the table, and the thunder of a church bell shattered the world. All throughout the darkened labyrinth in which the pair found themselves, mirrors exploded with the force of the sound. At the end of the hall stood a pale man, eyes opened wide and unblinking as if in a trance. His head was encased in a tall iron cage that drooped slightly as he tilted it to one side.

"Ahh, Kos, or some say Kosm... Did you hear their prayers?"

"Kos is dead, you idiot! And not like in the usual Cthulhu way. Super dead. Ghost-Eating Technique level of perma-death. Incidentally, now I'm wondering what god-calamari tastes like."

The lunatic tried to run from the hunter pair, but the woman quickly ran up the innumerable bookshelves like stairs and vomited lava over his head, blocking his path. Unfazed, he raised his hands to invoke the gods, but another toll of the sword severed that connection and more, sending ripples throughout the world that was little more than the dream of a god. The walls and floors began to shift and rearrange, and the cultist made use of a newfound pathway to escape.

"My bad-!" the armored hunter started as he began after the scholar.

His partner stopped him.

"These people are all-too-eager to speak with the gods. They hardly care to their patron's nature."

"Uhh?"

"Shh. I hear my flock."

With that, the pair did follow their prey leisurely. They found him pinned to the ground, his pant legs full of bloody holes. The countless dog-sized spiders that infested the lower levels of the building surrounded him, waiting patiently. Some of them had human heads instead of arachnid ones, but they were hardly more cognizant than their brethren.

"Holy holy holy, our Queen," they muttered and bowed low to the hunter woman.

She gestured, and the spiders ascended the walls, using their silk to drag their victim up on his ruined legs.

"No, don't- don't move me!" he shrieked as he rose.

He suddenly fell silent as he saw a horse-sized creep overhead. It didn't move toward him but dropped a silken bundle atop the cage he wore. The sack burst, and countless baby spiders poured out, running through the bars.

"Oh no! No! Not the spiders! Not the spiders!"

He shrieked wildly as they ran over his face like a fluid.

"They're in my eyes! My eyes!"

Soon, he could take no more and faded into the nightmare fog.

"Huh," the hunter said solemnly. "So that's what it's like to be Kirk."


	4. Blood rushing to the head

"Remind you of anything?"

"That is so utterly inappr-! We don't have time for this!"

A woman's body arced through the air as she gagged, unable to scream as blood filled her lungs. As she fluttered through the air, the red of her blood was reflected in the red of a precious ruby brooch. The young hunter dashed forward as fast as his legs would carry. He lunged at the branches of a dead tree and swung up on top of the nearby mausoleum. Just as the woman's body ought have clattered on the hard shingles, he slid across, catching her.

With the last of her life pouring out of her, the foreign cleric touched the gaping wound in her torso. The golden light of healing was the same no matter the gods petitioned, but some were more generous in their answering. Torn viscera closed, shattered bone reassembled, and cut flesh knit itself together once more. The woman's pale body flushed as it produced new blood to replace what had been lost. It was her own blood; the blood of a human. This priest would not administer the tainted blood of the Healing Church.

After such an ordeal, the woman understandably fainted. That made things convenient. As the hunter rested her gently against the high wall behind the mausoleum, he glanced up to see his partner in action. The huntress was having a ball. Resigned as a foreign father and now resigned as a cleric of the Healing Church, the snarling man before her was one of the last hunters of the old Workshop.

Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, his eyes were bandaged, but that did nothing to impair his aim with axe or blunderbuss. The rugged, wild-haired man snarled. Sparks flew as he dragged his brutal axe across the paving stones before slashing up at the huntress. She laughed. It was not a mocking laugh, though she easily dodged the slow attack.

No, she was laughing for the mad joy of battle. Too long had she been denied a straightforward fight against a foe not utterly mindless. You could see the blood-colored madness in the eyes of the people of Yharnam. This huntress' eyes were indeed the color of blood, but they showed only the thrill of a sportsman. There was no bloodlust; only adrenaline high.

She snapped her curved saw forward, catching the rogue hunter's arm. He jumped away, but the shock caused him to drop his gun. The newcomer stepped forward and stepped on it. With a quick maneuver, she kicked it up into her free hand and slid it into one of the countless holsters on her armored skirt. The senior hunter only grunted and snapped his axe into its long-handled configuration.

"Ohh… what's that smell?" he exhaled. "Hah. The sweet blood, oh, it sings to me. It's enough to make a man sick."

He laughed madly as he swung the poleaxe overhead. The glint of the blade reflected in those red eyes. Father Gascoigne was one of the most successful hunters, at least in that he had outlived most of the others. Yet he was accustomed to the cunning of beasts and the brutality of the Yharnamites. He was not a hunter of hunters; he was not an executioner; and he wasn't a debauched nobleman who found his entertainment in bloody duels.

For one who had likely spent as much time fighting as the hunter had spent living, such a direct attack had no chance. The huntress sidestepped the blow. As rubble shot out about the point of impact, she took a second step and was inside the axe's swinging range. Gascoigne slammed the haft forward, trying to force her away, but she only whipped her body back. With the momentum of her evasion, she swept one of her armored feet out and knocked the father's feet out from under him.

He landed on all fours, growling. His body emitted a dull brown light, and his hair stood on end. There was a sudden explosion of sticky, tarlike matter and an inhuman shriek. The father's clothes were stretched and torn, only barely accommodating his new size. He had been tall before, in that peculiar Yharnam way, but he was nearly half again that size.

All his body rippled with bulging muscle beneath silver fur. His face had elongated slightly, but he had not yet fully become a beast. Still, he was just as ferocious as one, immediately twisting his body toward his foe. He lunged forward, swiping one direction, then the other. The huntress weaved backward before reaching the railing.

She casually flipped over without looking, landing daintily atop a tombstone and kicking off of it to put even more distance between the two of them. Furious, the half-beast charged straight over the iron spikes and stone. This only made it impossible to stop in time as the huntress swung up and into a tree. The monster plowed face-first into the rotten wood, knocking it over just as the woman jumped off. She made a swooping slash across his back, taking most of the flesh off. She landed on her free hand and flipped upright, making a second slash across the beast's Achilles' tendons.

"All too easy," she said, a little disappointed.

The beast tried to turn and fight but simply fell over without the tendons to stabilize it.

"He's all yours, dear!" the huntress called out pleasantly, the exercise making her forget she was angry with him.

The other hunter had been content to watch the fight, for all its brevity. Or rather, he had been content to ogle his partner's athletic form in motion. Now, he picked up the unconscious woman and hopped down from the mausoleum roof. He laid his charge against a tree and approached the beast. Though its legs were ruined, its arms were still powerful, and it lunged at him, teeth snapping.

"No! Bad dog!"

He took several steps backward and rubbed his chin. While he was thinking, his partner approached the beast and stomped hard on its back. It tried to rise, but she dug her heel deeper and deeper between its shoulderblades.

"Honestly, we rushed to get here and still almost didn't make it," the hunter said, shrugging. "Normally, we'd have a music box to make him remember who he is, but kind of skipped it."

"Do you remember the tune? I could easily hum something simple enough to be recorded like that."

"Kind of. I actually think it's the sound of the music box itself that's what's important. But I have a better idea."

He cleared his throat and held his hands together imploringly.

 _Gascoigne, you've got to pull yourself together._

 _Gosh it disturbs me to see you, Gascoigne_

 _Looking so out of your head_

 _Every guy here'd love to be you, Gascoigne_

 _Even when eating your lead_

 _There's no boss in town as well-written as you_

 _You're everyone's favorite guy_

 _Everyone booed when they couldn't save you_

 _And it's not very hard to see why_

 _No one's sad as Gascoigne_

 _No one's bad as Gascoigne_

 _No one's hat's as incredibly rad as Gascoigne's_

 _For there's no beast in town half as beastly_

 _Savage, so like Shao Kahn!_

 _You can ask any Doll, Church, or Scholar_

 _And they'll tell you whose badge they prefer to pin on_

 _No one's-_

"Wait!" the huntress said suddenly. "This isn't a spell! You're literally just serenading him!"

"Jealous?"

"Slightly. More importantly, you're an idiot. Someone's life is on the life."

"Not really? Worst case scenario, we could just have one of us hold him here while the other gets the music box. It's not dark enough for any of the really spoopy stuff to come out yet."

As he said this, the woman lying against the tree began to stir.

"Wh…? What happened? Dear…?"

She shot back in shock at seeing the beast sprawled out in front of her.

"Oh, my dear Gascoigne!"

She sniffled, and tears began to pour down her face. She looked to one hunter, then the other.

"You're hunters, I can tell. Please," she choked. "Make it quick."

"Right," the young man said. "Plan… was it B for Bed, C for Chaos, or D for Demon?"

"E for Error, because even considering this was a mistake. I'm never discussing plans with you behind closed doors ever again."

"So it's Plan F for fu-"

"Just take my damned blood!"

The huntress shoved a vial of slightly off-color blood into his hands. The blood of Yharnam was peculiar in that it stayed strangely fluid, strangely alive, even after it had cooled. This blood had done nothing of the sort, bubbling and radiating warmth. The glass was almost too hot to touch, and it even glowed faintly. The hunter circled around the beast and jabbed the needle into its thigh.

As the contents of the vial flooded its system, it shrank in size and shed much of its fur. After a few moments, all that remained was the father in what remained of his stretched and tattered clothing.

"Wh- what?" the woman squeaked.

"We'll explain along the way," the hunter said gently. "Your younger daughter is all alone right now."

He helped her to her feet and glanced to his partner.

"Can you carry Gascoigne?"

"You mean like I've been carrying you all this time?"


	5. Bloodline

"Disgusting."

The huntress ripped her crescent saw from the split, misshapen skull of one of the so-called "Living Failures." The corpses of a dozen or so blue, sexless giants littered the field of sunflowers. Though they appeared otherworldly, the muddy red blood dripping from the saw's teeth proved a much more macabre origin. The horrors of the research hall where the Healing Church had performed ghastly experiments on believers were behind them now. The hall now held only the silence of death, though the Hunter's Nightmare would soon restore the trapped souls to their half-mad agony.

"Yeah, they're pretty gross. They don't look as phallic as the finished product, though."

"That's hardly what I meant. The lengths to which you humans go for power. Nations laid to waste, drained of life or worse. _This_. I love you dearly, but I cannot fathom why your people were Chosen."

"It's our tenacity. Weak, pathetic humans, without claws or fur. All we have is that inferiority complex driving us to to want more. It's up to the individual what they're willing to do for power. It just happened that the Church here was willing to sacrifice innocents for a power that they couldn't even control. Same story, different Age."

The male hunter eyed the enormous, multi-headed sunflower in the center of the field nervously. The faces looked unsettlingly like eyes. The huntress brushed a stray lock of wavy hair out of her eye and sighed.

"It is, isn't it? Let's see about this conspiracy's guardian, then. Maria, I believe it was?"

"Yeah. One of the Old Hunters. She was one of Gehrman's apprentices, but it looks like she sided with the Church in the end. A distant relative of the Vileblood Queen as well."

"I recall you saying that she was the most skilled swordsman among them?"

The foreign prophet nodded

"She uses a daisho – bastard and shortsword katana pair. Originally, she hated the use of blood blades, but well, I think she hates herself more now. Blood and fire – she's a clear link between the Vilebloods and the Pthumerians."

"A woman after my own heart. Oh, I have relished the chance for a fine duel since dear old dogbreath lost his arm. Let me fight her, alone."

The hunter quirked an eyebrow. His partner leaned in close.

"I'll make it worth your while," she whispered, dragging an inhumanly long tongue along the side of his neck.

The man quivered, hair standing on end. He put his hands on her hips, putting some distance between them so he could look her in the eye.

"Be careful," he said seriously. "I'll wait at the edge of the room, in case you need me."

"Of course. What's a duel without an audience? I'll let you do your proselytizing once I'm finished."

With that, they headed up the short stairs to the great bronze doors opposite the entrance. The man lit the nearby lantern while the woman unlocked the doors and pushed them open with a grunt. Another set of stairs inside led to a ruined room, upturned floorboards everywhere. It had been cleared of its contents, save a lone chair and end table at the far end. The room was illuminated by sunlight streaming through the circular holes that marked the hours on an enormous brass clock.

The chair sat beneath the clock, perfectly centered at the far end of the room. A woman slumped over in the chair, unmoving. As the pair approached, they could see that she wore a leather longcoat and a tricorne with a feather in it, the model from which modern hunter attire derived. A white ascot with a jeweled broach was tied about her neck, but it had run red with blood. One arm hung loosely over the side of the chair, blood dripping into a puddle on the floor.

On the table were set a red goblet and a shattered picture frame. Blood spattered these as well. All around the chair were strewn sunflower petals, and whole sunflowers were placed upon a memorial plaque behind the chair. The male hunter ascended the stairs to this plaque and leaned on the railing, waving to his partner. She nodded and reached to stir the cold corpse.

In an instant, the body lurched to life, grabbing her arm and jerking her forward. The huntress was a pale beauty, but a corpse is easily paler. Platinum blond locks fell out of either side of the tricorne, and watery yellow eyes leered at her from a distance closer than her partner had held her.

"A corpse," the dead woman said tiredly, "should be left well alone."

She released her grip gently and allowed the huntress to beat a hasty retreat before leisurely rising from the chair.

"Oh, I know very well. How the secrets beckon so sweetly."

A blade had been left standing vertically, wedged between two floorboards. The woman tugged it free – a cutlass and a long knife connected at the ends, blades opposite one another. She held them close, and with a metallic clank, snapped the paired blades apart.

"Only an honest death will cure you now. Liberate you from your wild curiosity."

The woman raised both blades upside-down and burst forward with a twisting downward lunge. The huntress hadn't expected a human to move so quickly, but accustomed to the surprises of the Hunt by now, she quickly ducked out of the way, making a quick swipe at the dead woman's ankles. Maria stumbled, so Quelaag spun around and hacked across her back. Abruptly, the old hunter vanished in a puff of smoke. The foreign queen rushed after her but quickly dropped to the ground, sliding between Maria's legs as she crossed her blades in front of her.

Quelaag let her arm go limp and dragged the sawblade up Maria's back as she sprung to her feet. The church hunter pivoted in place, tearing both blades around with enormous torque. Quelaag grabbed her blade with both hands and blocked, allowing the force of the blow to throw her back and put distance between them. This time, Maria charged with one blade high and the other low, snapping together like a beast's jaw. Quelaag jumped to one side and pirouetted, hopping from one foot to the other as she repeatedly hacked away at Maria like a bladed top.

The old hunter ducked out of the attack at last and swung her saber overhead, stepping inside Quelaag's rotation. The spider queen quickly threw herself down, standing on one hand while slamming her blade upward to block the attack. The long knife followed at a delay, so she quickly finished the flip, hopping out of range but facing the wrong direction. Maria lunged forward again, but this time, Quelaag threw herself backward. The blades surged overhead as her armored buttocks bowled over the flustered church hunter.

"Dat ass!" her partner cheered from the sidelines.

Quelaag took a blind swipe as she spun about, but Maria had quickly turned the momentum of her fall into a retreat.

"Hold on!" the prophet shouted. "She's going to power up and then explode!"

Maria stood with feet apart, blades at her sides. She raised her fists into the air, then without hesitation, drove both weapons under her collarbone and out above her shoulder blades. She drew them out again with a tremendous blood spray, slumping over somewhat from the pain and exhaustion. Both blades were half again their prior length and width, half-solid blood melding with the iron. Now, a mere swing of the blade unleashed a wave of volatile blood.

After missing her opening strike, the Vileblood connected the weapons and focused for a moment. With a roar, she unleashed a rising arc of blood that could have easily cut a swath through the beasts outside. Quelaag quickly slid to one side and charged. Maria tried to block her passage with a quick one-two, forming a wall of tainted blood, but the Old Lord stopped herself before she ran into it, leaping to the side again. The huntress was able to get in a quick slash before Maria exploded into blood and vanished.

Again, she combined the blades, holding them as if to make a lunging charge. Quelaag charged directly toward her, heedless of the stance. In an instant, the Vileblood lashed out, unleashing a piercing lance of blood, but the Old Lord was gone. Quelaag flipped in midair, tearing her saw down Maria's exposed side. Maria quickly retaliated, swinging one blood blade, then the other, arcing them up again together, and then lunging, but Quelaag slipped under the first strike, popping up on the other side to avoid the second, and using the third as time to get behind her.

The saw's teeth cut deep, and Maria tumbled away, exposing herself for another blow before she could quickstep away. At a safe distance, she corkscrewed into the air, propelled by a spiral of blood spurting from her swords. She screamed, jetting herself through the air before crashing down with a crimson hammer. Blood and shattered floorboards sprayed everywhere, but this time, the huntress attacked from behind. As Maria stood on all four limbs from her landing, Quelaag leaped over her, dragging the saw across her back.

The Vileblood snorted and rose, then continued rising. Blood circled around her in rings going every direction as she floated serenely, blades to her sides. Abruptly, the blood burst back outward, coating much of the room. Maria snapped her swords together overhead, paused, then hammered them into the floor. An explosion of blood and an arc of flame followed, and Quelaag's eyes went wide in delight.

"Finally, you face me at your strongest! I shall put away this toy as well!"

With that, she flipped her grip and slammed the crescent saw between two loose floorboards. Keeping an eye open to attack, she unhinged her jaw. She coughed, and a light glowed from within before something long and reddish-black emerged. Maria quickstepped one way, then the other, charging with her blade at a right angle to cleave through the demon queen while she was preparing her counterattack. Unfortunately, it backfired.

Quelaag turned as the blow came, catching the attack on her back. She grunted in pain as the blood and steel struck her, but the flame simply washed over with no effect. Turning with the attack, she pulled the thing from her throat, drawing up a long katana with a warped and mottled blade and inflicting the same wound on her foe's back. Maria turned and unleashed a slash that tore through the wall and ceiling, but the demoness simply wasn't there. This time, she caught the blow before it struck her, though, stopping the katana with both blades as it aimed to take a chunk out of her shoulder.

She threw the blade back, but Quelaag only lunged forward again. Maria sidestepped, but the wicked blade still clipped her side, slicing through the leather with a red-hot blade. She slashed from the shoulder, but Quelaag spun around her in a circle, the searing edge cutting a red line through her armor. Thinking to catch her foe, she slashed in either direction, boiling blood and roiling flame forming an impassable arc around her. The Old Lord had taken her rightful place above the mere Vileblood, flipping over the attack to make a quick slash from behind.

Maria whirled about, striking quickly, but Quelaag caught it on the katana's delicate blade. The Vileblood became a beautiful vortex of swirling blood and flame, and the Chaos Queen matched every blow, laughing wildly as her weapon splintered and sparked from the abuse. Furious, Maria roared and hammered against the thin blade with both of hers, splattering the foreign huntress with blood and embers. The half-liquid blood blades washed over the katana and nearly cut into the witch's neck, but she only laughed the harder for it. Abruptly, it was no longer a laughing matter.

"Get back!" Quelaag demanded, swallowing hard. "Back!"

"What could be the matter?" the dead woman said flatly. "A moment of sanity, perhaps?"

"No, you idi-!"

The demoness choked and bit her lip.

"Get back! NOW!" Quelaag hissed. "I'll give you a free hit! Just do it before I-!"

Her eyes went wide. She took a deep breath and swallowed. She nearly lost her grip on her sword. Then, with a lurch forward, she vomited magma all over her foe. Maria fell over screaming, rolling on the ground in a vain effort to extinguish the molten stone.

"Darling, heal-!"

Quelaag doubled over and vomited the other direction, the lava quickly spreading over the dry old floorboards and causing fire to spread much more quickly than Maria's transient attacks. It would only be a matter of time before the entire building was alight. The foreign priest rushed over quickly and began to recite the spell of healing over his partner, but she covered her mouth and pointed to Maria before vomiting a third time and destroying any hope that the clock tower wouldn't burn to the ground. Fortunately, the hunter reached Maria before she was slain by the all-consuming Chaos Flame. He quickly healed the worst of her injuries and then helped brush some of the remaining lava off her ruined outfit.

The old hunter was so confused by the sudden chain of events that she didn't resist the help. Exhausted, her blood blades flickered and burst, pouring over the burning floor. She slumped over slightly but maintained her dignity.

"I want a rematch," Quelaag said, shuddering as she spat out the last of the lava. "Perhaps in a more suitable arena," she added, seeing the uncontrolled blaze.

"If you wish to do battle again, you must leave this place. I will not allow hunters to pass," Maria said adamantly, despite her fatigue.

The male hunter shook his head.

"We have to end this nightmare, or more hunters will keep getting dragged in. The Orphan of Kos is already dead. Better to put it to rest than let it continue living out this nightmare. "Sins of the Father" is a bullshit paradigm. The younger hunters have nothing to do with what happened there."

"Then you know what they are capable of-!"

"I know what people are capable of, yeah. That doesn't mean I'll let some alien preteen edgelord judge a bunch of unrelated people. You know how the two of us got here? We tricked the stupid Amigdala thing that grabs people off the street. _Grabs people off the street_.

Sure, pretty much everyone on the street is insane by now, but when the choice is between beasthood and death, I'm pretty sure most people are going to ask if you have any more blood vials. If you want to make sure that we don't do something stupid, then come with us. It's already clear that we could have forced our way through if we wanted to."

Maria stiffened.

"Oh, just do it," Quelaag groaned, still a little nauseous. "This idiot gets monsters to follow him like stray dogs. Myself included."

The hunter circled around and began gently massaging her back. The Vileblood grimaced, then nodded.

"Very well. You do not have the overpowering scent as the blood-mad hunters do. Perhaps a mother will have more pity for the orphan.


	6. Blood of the gods

"The… Pthumerian Queen…"

"God, Lawrence, don't cream yourself."

"Can I not hold appropriate reverence for my spiritual forebear, or is nothing sacred to a deicide?"

"Absolutely nothing. We're literally using a copy of the source of all life to heat our jacuzzi."

The two Old Lords and the two Vicars of the Healing Church which venerated their kind had at last reached the heart of the Labyrinth beneath Yharnam, the cold bottommost chamber of Pthumeru Ihyll. There, a grand tombstone was erected to honor the dead gods below. Before it knelt a tall, pale woman in a wedding dress, stained crimson across her distended belly. Her hands were bound together with manacles of wood long petrified, and a veil covered her face. The four intruders had hardly entered the room before she had risen to attack.

Jets of blood gushed from her wrists, shooting toward the doorway like javelins. The hunters scattered. The married couple strafed wide while the first and final vicars simply dodged, then took off running. Their loose clerical robes bulged, and their teeth grew long as they tapped the beast blood inside them, falling to all fours. Laurence rushed right ahead with Amelia following cautiously.

"No!" the ravenous scholar snarled.

His left sleeve exploded with fur and flame. His arm grew to its full monstrous size for a moment as he dragged the Pthumerian Queen away from the other hunters.

"What the hell, man?" the foreign priest complained as his claymore ate dirt.

"He's gotten greedy," his wife said. "So much for our goodwill."

Before Laurence could justify his actions, the Pthumerian Queen said something low, scowling. She raised her hands high, showering all of them in a spurt of her tainted blood. The Vicars crumpled in pain, but the foreigners only seemed annoyed.

"We're not here for your blood, you fool!" the huntress roared. "Is the world so fallen that a pyromancer cannot recognize a Daughter of Chaos?"

Ancient Yharnam gasped slightly. Her eyes, forever half-closed from dreaming and from weeping, opened wide in astonishment. She spoke again in the language of Pthumeru.

"The root of Chaos is Life," the huntress replied. "How can one rule all that lives if one cannot understand their languages? All the nobility of Izalith bear rings of translation. I speak your language no more than I speak the language of these petty men… least of all, my husband."

"You're just jealous that my reference game is on point."

"Thank you for illustrating my point. Now, Yharnam, hold your peace, and we shall discuss the reason for our presence as soon as we resolve the issue of this interruption. Laurence, you had best have ample reason for disobeying orders."

The First Vicar spat.

"You failed to mention the Pthumerian Queen was with child. I will not risk damaging it. You witnessed what Master Willem and I created with only corpses. Imagine what we could do if we could study a live Pthumerian! One of the race which had gone before us!"

"Treating your forebear as a test subject and her child an object –" the huntress said, sneering, "– truly, you have inherited the moonlight."

"Is there an insult in there? Because now you're the one speaking in a foreign language."

The younger priest simply watched, amused, while Amelia followed every word. To her credit, the Pthumerian Queen did much the same. An intense battle with the high priestess and queen of an ancient race had devolved into an argument between a high priest and a queen of an ancient race. While the banter continued, the foreign priest and the last Vicar quietly slipped away with the Pthumerian.

"Right, so, long story short, I'm a real cleric. It took some time, but I have the single most important power and iconic power of a healer, the envy of necromancers everywhere. I know the countersign of the Sixth Saint, Astraea. If I encounter a spirit, I can restore its body to life."

The Pthumerian's withered lips curled into a snarl. In a rage, she snapped the stone wood of her manacles and lunged toward the hunter. Amelia snarled, her face elongating as she opened wide to crush the ghastly Queen's arm with flesh-rending fangs. The ancient tainted blood gushed out into the Vicar's mouth, causing her to yelp and fall away just as quickly. However, the hunter was still in no danger.

The divine blood, purer in the Pthumerian Queen than anything ministered by the Healing Church, healed her wounds almost instantly. Only, the stone floor erupted with the footfalls of a monster, and an arc of flame rose with such ferocity as to strike at the ceiling. In a flash, the huntress had closed the gap and swung her burning sword. Only, the trick weapon was a mere replica. It couldn't bear the heat of the concealed deity's rage and fell to cinders.

So too did the Pthumerian Queen's scorched hands fall to the floor, sizzling and popping with the scent of burnt meat. Already in a fugue state, Yharnam's reaction was subdued, but her own rage subsided at seeing pyromancy greater than her own. A faint look of disbelief had settled upon her brow.

"Do not touch-!"

"I'm fine. To be fair, it's a pretty big claim, even for me. The hormones are getting to you. Here, Yharnam, let's start with a bit of regular healing."

Laurence growled in the back of his throat, impotent rage simmering. He had reacted to the attack but had been far too slow to stop it. He retrieved Yharnam's severed hands and gave one to Amelia. Each Vicar held one against its severed stump while the Pthumerian Queen looked on skeptically. The foreign priest started to reach for a pouch on his belt, then thought better of it, wagging a finger.

"If you don't mind, dear…"

The huntress scoffed and crossed her arms but didn't resist as he stroked her hair. The golden light of a miracle streamed along the priest's fingers, using the magic-endowed hair as a vehicle for faith and primal instinct. Soothing rays of light pulsed outward, humming as they did so. The holy pyromancy restored the severed flesh and cured the blood-caused wounds of the Vicars, but by effect of the spell or of the romantic scene, also calmed the whole group.

"So," the priest said at last. "This is the deal. I'll resurrect Mergo regardless, but we can't exactly let someone like you go free. You will become one of our citizens whether you like it or not. It's your choice as to whether we confine you for your crimes or you work to redeem yourself."

" _Thou art as much a slaver as I was_ ," Yharnam said flatly.

"You'll be given a trial, but the evidence will extracted from your own memories. I think we both know what the sentence will be."

Her lips wrinkled.

" _So be it._ "

* * *

Gehrman moaned in his sleep. He too was trapped in a realm between dreams and reality. While he woke, he was trapped upon an illusory island of his own making, an eternal reminder of what he had lost. When he fell into slumber, though, he entered a dream within a dream, a nightmare where his sins hunted him as he had hunted the victims of the scourge he held part in unleashing. But tonight's Dream was quickly coming to an end.

The Workshop was burning, as he had burned so many beasts in his time. The sharp scent of the smoke, of burning paper and iron, always snapped him awake again. The nightmares had mercifully subsided already, but now he had to face the waking nightmare of the Dream ending. It would soon come time to put the young hunters to rest. With great effort, he wheeled himself through the burning shop.

He unlocked the gate to the memorial field and grit his teeth as he forced the wheelchair uphill, over the uneven terrain. He settled beneath the old tree to await the foolish pair of hunters who thought romance had any place in their profession. He waited silently for a time, wishing he could fall asleep. The acrid scent of the smoke simply wouldn't let him. So he waited.

Instead of the hunters, it was the moon which stirred him from his quiet contemplation. It hung low in the sky, blazing brightly. Only, it did not burn the umber red of paleblood. The silhouette of the tendrilled deity descended from its light, beckoning him. Instinctively, he sprung from his chair, kneeling low.

"Nameless lord, the night is short, but I will not fail to claim your echoes."

"The nameless lord was my brother. Heedest first the words of mineself, Gwyndolin."

The first hunter realized too late that the usual sensation of divine communion was absent. Nevertheless, the scent of moonlight and the tidal pull emanated from this other creature. If it was a god, it wore the face of a man, eyes covered as any scholar of Byrgenwerth or the Healing Church. From beneath his white gown and golden chimes, however, a tangle of vicious snakes writhed like the monsters of the forbidden woods.

"If thou seekest atonement for thy sins, thou shalt findest mine judgment merciful. Hunter Gehrman, ignorant of thy pedigree, renouncest thine false deity and findest service among the Blades of the Darkmoon."

The old hunter smiled assuredly.

"Well, I don't know about that. I've seen madmen that look more divine than you."

"Appearances canneth deceive."

"Then let these old eyes have a closer gander."

The ancient lunar deity descended, snakes writhing upon the ground. In his hands, he held a golden scepter but was otherwise unarmed. Easy prey. The Burial Blade whipped around, ratcheting out to its full length in a flash as it clove through the god's thin neck. The body and all its snakes fell limp, and the head became stuck in the ground by one of the spines on the crown.

The First Hunter sniffed, then spat on the body.

"What a god. Put up less of a fight than the babe."

Moonlight lanced through his side. The hunter vanished, reappearing some distance away while he quickly looked one way and the other. He folded the blade to its short form so he could clutch his side. He held up his palm, rubbing his fingers together. No blood. Then why did it hurt so?

"Thou heedest not mine warning. Appearances art oft false."

The corpse glimmered into nothingness.

"Surrenderest thineself to the gods if thou wishest true insight into the world. If thou fearest reprisal for thine sins, the power of the Darkmoon shall safeguard thee."

"Well, I might be more inclined to believe you're a god now."

Gehrman kept his guard up, turning about with legs tensed for a quick evasion. Moonlight struck him again, piercing through his back without resistance. He stumbled forward before whirling around to find nothing.

"I shall ask one final time. Willest thou not serve mineself as a Blade of the Darkmoon?"

The First Hunter only smiled darkly. Chasing a whiff of moonlight, he sprinted straight ahead, leaping through the air and unfolding his scythe. Steel struck against tin, and the weaker metal gave way. The Burial Blade cut through the divine scepter, then bit into the flesh of a god yet again. Holy blood rained over the moonflowers as Gwyndolin stumbled backward, his snakes drunkenly trying to balance him.

"Then perish in this forsaken twilight."

For the third time, a moonlight arrow twisted through the old hunter's body, this one cutting through the back of his neck and emerging through his mouth. He fell to his knees. Dying, the fire began to die with him. The Dream had been his, but it had been shared by many and would endure his passing. Of course, such a change would indelibly attract the attention of its prime architect.

The paleblood hue returned to the moon, and its full disc overtook most of the sky. Out of the shadows of a maria, a hideous thing crept. Its body was deformed and incomplete, exposed ribs writhing just as much as its countless tendrils. It landed amidst the flowers on all fours like mere beast, searching like a dog for the concealed killer.

 _The nameless moon presence beckoned by Laurence and his associates. Paleblood._

"Wretch of the Abyss, have your pretensions of divinity eased the pain of your deformity?"

The thing hissed and gurgled, but it could find the god no more easily than the hunter had been able to. A beam of blue moonlight shot cleanly through its crude, ever-gaping mouth. It howled, slamming its claws into the earth before plowing through the flowers in a frenzy. It slashed hither and thither, intent on destroying absolutely everything. When that too proved fruitless, it reared up on its hind legs, covering its face.

Abruptly, it tore its hand free, unleashing a red shockwave from one eye which shuddered through the air, shredding the flowers as effectively as anything else. Panting from the exertion, it at last paused.

"You are unworthy of this honor, but an example must be made. Behold, I am the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, King of Anor Londo and Lord of Sunlight!"

The deity hovered again in the light of the moon, which had been restored to its natural blue shade. He drew up his golden-lacquered yew and reached through the empty air. Sparks flitted across his gloved fingertips, and for a brief moment, the roaring burnt gold of Sunlight appeared, but it was quickly tainted by the god's warped nature. As he drew the Sunlight Spear back along his bow, a shadow passed over it. It became a pulsing, silent bolt of eclipsed light, barely visible as he held it.

He let it fly without sound. So too did the creature perish, its body devoured by occult power. With that, the Dream calmed and returned to its normal state, the damages of the battle undone. Only, the moon continued to loom over the field of flowers.

"Now, to claim my birthright…"


	7. Bled out

It was too fast; it was always too fast. The world whirled and churned unending. It was enough to make a man sick. He tried to close his eyes, but there was only endless night.

He was on his hands and knees, everything throbbing. His fingers felt as if they would burst with each beat of his heart. There was a weight in the pit of his stomach and a burning in his chest. There was something in his throat that wouldn't dislodge no matter how he retched. The taste of blood, not sweet but bitter like a hunter's blade, filled his mouth.

Half-asleep, gloved fingers scrabbled in the dirt until they clutched at something, a flower. It shone like the moon. He struggled to rise. Did he now wake or dream? He had prowled in a bloodstained fugue for longer than he could remember. There was but the briefest glimpse of lucidity, a pair of hunters and the gleam of moonlight.

His arms gave beneath him, and he collapsed to the dirt. It was cool but dry, unlike the hauntingly warm slickness of blood. He tried to rise again, dragging his long, noble nose away from the soil with only heroic effort. Long, flowing silver hair dragged over his face. He tilted his head to one side, and it fell away, save one crooked strand.

Giving up on rising, he settled for flipping onto his back. The sky above should have been night. The moon was plainly visible, shining silver as always, yet it was bright as day. Great, dead trees, stripped of their branches and ready for the lumberyard, lined his vision. There was something unsettlingly familiar.

"What…bloody…here?"

He heard voices. He'd heard them before, in a dream, maybe. There was anger, accusations. He could feel the familiar sting, even if his mind wasn't quite focused enough to tune in on the words. He groaned faintly and tried to tune it out before his mind wandered to unpleasant memories.

Then came lecturing, worry, relief. There was love in voices, more now than he could count. It reminded him of long ago, before the night had grown so dark and the blood so thick. It reminded him of when he had been a mere newblood, an apprentice hunter under-

"…Lady Maria…"

He must have imagined it, because he thought he heard her voice in reply to the stranger's mention of her name. It was no surprise that whomever had rescued him might talk about her, surely. Though the Healing Church had been forced to move on without her, he doubted she could ever be truly forgotten. They must be new recruits, Healing Church hunters who had been recruited while he was away.

Only, how long had he been away? Why had he been away? His head throbbed in tune with his heart.

He let his head fall to one side. His hair drooped down again, but he hadn't the energy to deal with it. What he saw through the strands was peculiar. It couldn't be. The old workshop had been condemned and sealed, until such time that its equipment could be properly disposed.

Again, he struggled to rise. He clawed the dirt and strained, dragging himself into a slumped seated position. Lazily, one eye opened.

"…?"

Ah, she was calling his name. No, it couldn't be. Lady Maria was long dead, yet two women who bore her appearance stood among the crowd. Perhaps more runaways from that debauched castle. Ah, what was its name again?

One, the one who had called his name, ran to embrace him. Truly, she was just as he remembered his master, the last time he had seen her, bloodstains on her…

Impossible. She was dead. Was he?

Now that he thought about it, it made sense. Of course, the good hunters would find rest beneath the moon. It would not be surprising for their paradise to resemble where they had spent so much of the last days of their lives. He would not question it further. He was too simple for such things, and he didn't want to know… not really.

"Lady Maria… was it enough…? Did I do the Church proud…?"

His voice sounded so strange. The last time he had spoken with her, he had been hardly more than a boy. Now, he looked many years her elder, forehead creased and voice noble of bearing.

He could hardly hear what she said to him, but it didn't matter. He remembered those days before the nights were quite so dark, before they hunted prey stranger than mere beasts. Yet he found his eye drifting.

He had never given much thought to the echoes, but here, they were stronger than ever. He felt something in his blood stir. He slouched deeper, not from fatigue, but because he was too weary to bow like his body wanted.

A silver hand shone brilliantly in the moonlight. It was large enough that it made him feel a child again as it pat his head gently.

"If no other were, I would be proud of thee. I could not have wished for a better successor. Only, I wish I could have saved thee from befalling a darker fate than mine own. Thou'st earned thy rest. Only, if thou wishest to continue thine fight with the beasts of the Abyss, I would have thee joinest me."

It was not as if he had never seen a man bloated and made larger by blood, but this one seemed different, somehow. The figure which stood before him was hardly the largest he had seen, but there was something purer in the shape.

"Milord, surely you approve?"

Something twinkling emerged from the crowd. It had the shape of a man, but with his eyes half-closed, he could see the glimmer shining within.

"Ah," he sighed, pushing Maria away. "My true mentor. My guiding moonlight!"

* * *

They had come not as common hunters. They were not pale shades drawn in by the moon's tides. They had come deliberately, with the fire of the Hunt.

Their fires had burned away the Dream like flesh and fur. What had been a holy sanctum of the gods, inviolate, they tainted with the ways of the lower world. Pale, even moonlight was outshone by a flickering flame.

Even old Gehrman, who was used to the Hunt and the flame, was frightened. So he had watched them go. These were not mere whelps, blind pups. They saw the doll for what she was, and they didn't care.

As for the doll herself, she had felt a prickling. There was something old in the hunters, older than Gehrman or his master. Something that danced in the sarcophagi of the labyrinth. Something that the Keepers guarded with secrecy greater than Byrgenwerth could unearth.

She felt the ancient echoes, old enough that the world would crack like an old garment.

"No. The blood echoes just remember what nothing else does. The world changes, but its bones are the same. You see what's left of them, the archtrees all around you. Even stone doesn't last forever. But soul memory does. The blood is just a medium for souls."

The doll simply smiled and nodded. How different were souls from a dream, really? Phantoms were called from higher or lower planes, and time turned upon itself. But indeed, if not their blood, their souls were mighty indeed.

Those few sane left in Yharnam came to be gathered, first at the Chapel of Formless Oedon, then at the forsaken Castle Cainhurst. They did not stop there. The abandoned Ebrietas, the helpless Master Willem – every last thing which retained some vestige of identity came to be collected at the frozen keep. Even the long dead, those whose spirits were trapped in nightmare realms, were gathered alive, restrained if necessary.

The last Hunter of Hunters and the mad Beast-Eater of legend watched over their menagerie as it grew. It was not long before their collection was complete, even the dead Great One, Mergo, restored to life and in the arms of his long-bound mother. Humans hopelessly lost to beasthood were human once more – or a blasphemous approximation of such.

"I better get more than a diploma for catching 'em all. Wait, no. Do you think I could get an honorary doctorate from Byrgenwerth in xenomurdology?"

The man-creature which had overcome Gehrman and his master had followed in the hunters' wake. Only, while their flame was wild and maddening as the Paleblood Moon, his was steady as its phases. The Dream should have dispersed with neither host nor divine guest, but his presence upheld it, echoes streaming from him like water.

More had followed him, servants truer than the old knights of that ancient castle. Together, they watched as the serpent-god stirred the Dream like the tides.

"Was't worth it, Mother? To survive all and live in this world without Fire?"

A vengeful raven's cry was his only answer.

The hunters returned, and they spoke with the man-god for a time. At last, it seemed, the long night was coming to an end. Yet what would become of her, without the hunters to attend and the Dream? Somehow, those hunters had brought their full collection to the astral workshop.

"Right, so, you've got three options, just like the ending. Option one: again like the ending, we return you to Yharnam, and you figure out what you're going to do with the rest of your life. Option two: we take you away from the blood, to the distant past, and leave you in the middle of nowhere with some supplies and money. Option three: you come to work for my wife or for the Daft Punk reject here.

The choice is yours. Except for Brador – he's literally going to hell. Let's see how much you enjoy ringing bells after some quality time with Velstadt."

* * *

It was hard to imagine. How long had she slept? How long had she closed her eyes to the madness? She had ignored what was right in front of her for so long, in the name of some nebulous greater good. Taking her life for atonement only let her close her eyes again. It did not stop the experiments, and it only placed her burdens on frailer shoulders.

Of course, on closing her eyes to the mortal world, she merely opened them to the Nightmare. She could not escape her sins. Yet she tried, oh how she tried. For an eternity, she would try to convince herself of her own death, lying motionless atop the Astral Clocktower. She would guard the passage of time, so that no one might turn back to that darkest of secrets.

That too had been selfishness and a feeble attempt at preserving the Church's honor. She had forsaken her heritage and spurned blood blades to show her own skill. How proud was she, that she would use the technique not to hunt beasts and save lives, but to protect the dignity of graverobbers?

Yet for all her crimes, now she was free. That one-eyed judge had proclaimed her debt paid. The nightmare had broken, but instead of an afterlife of condemnation or rebirth into suffering, she simply walked away. Worse, she was offered power in the new world in which she found herself.

Rather than a grim duty to which she could dedicate herself, she found reward when she deserved none.

She sighed and slumped in her chair, an all-too-familiar position. Though it served few, her new home did have a public house. She felt more at ease staying there than at the palace, but she dared not drink. She had known intoxication too intimately before.

The door opened and a pair of boots thudded across the stone floor. There could be no mistake that the stranger had come for her. She cracked open one eye. Peculiarly, it was another pale swordswoman with a feather in her cap.

"Maria, I've heard a lot about you. I am called Lucatiel. Do you mind if I have a seat?"


End file.
